But Nobody's Home
by Unoriginality
Summary: Sometimes, the only thing that will calm a disquiet mind is the presence of someone who isn't even home. (A BTWWL fic, the first chapter is a lie.)
1. The First Chapter Is A Lie

I know it's been awhile. It might be awhile longer yet, too. At this point, I can't promise how reliable my updates will or won't be. I'm going to be straight up honest here, I've got a lot going on. My wife is dying from Stage IV breast cancer. She's stable at the moment, has been for going on a year at the time of this writing, but we don't know how long that'll last, or how many treatment options we have that will actually show good results when the current one stops working, and it _will_ be a when, not an if. It gives me ups and downs to deal with, and right now is a down.

In addition to that, I've been helping her with advocacy in the Stage IV community to get their voices heard, since they get a measly 2% of all research funding into research for _their_ cure, and since they're the stage that kills, that's not okay. So there's been a lot of push lately to get things changed. If you're interested in finding out more about that, you can look up the hashtags #BCKills #MetsMonday #dontignorestageiv over on Twitter/Facebook/Instagram. No, I'm not trying to advocate at you, I'm just saying that this is the shit I'm working on right now, and that's where you can find if you get curious.

On top of that, I've been given ownership of a support group for caretakers of loved ones with Stage IV BC like myself. So I'm supporting my wife, our friends and family, and now several other caregivers who are looking to me to keep our group safe for just us so they're free to pour out their hearts without worry that their ill loved ones will find out and feel guilty.

Add on that I have a rare mental illness that makes it difficult a lot of the time for me to take care of _myself,_ much less over a dozen people at any given time, and it's just a lot on my plate.

I wrote this fic almost exclusively because I needed the outlet because of all that going on. It's another flashback fic, set very early on, specifically so I could explore how severe Bucky's anxiety could get that early on. I am not and did not try to put my own anxiety into him- I have written him having anxiety attacks differently from how I have mine in the past. I just wanted to suffer with him. Sometimes doing that with characters in fics is better than Ativan and therapy combined.

I'm not throwing a pity party or asking for your sympathy, just saying that this is the state of affairs that will affect how often and what I write and post. I know some of you are regular readers, and your feedback has helped carry me through some hard downs this last year. I would feel awful if I just up and disappeared on you, or if I started posting things that feel out of step with what I usually write, without so much as a word as to why. So to all of you wonderful readers, if you haven't given up on me at this point and clicked back, thank you.


	2. But Nobody's Home

He hadn't been home long, but he already didn't like being left alone while Steve was at work.

He understood it was necessary. They needed money to make it in the world. Rent, bills, food. And everything was more expensive than he remembered it being. Steve wouldn't even tell him how high rent was.

It wasn't like Bucky wasn't used to being alone with the thoughts in his head. He spent a lot of time up on the roof, but that was only when Steve was home, when he could go back down the fire escape and into the apartment and Steve would be waiting for him. Coming back into an empty apartment made the loneliness crash in on him. It wasn't like being out on the streets insomuch as it was a helluva lot drier and climate controlled, but it was the same feeling. It made him feel lost. Like a boat without a tether line, ready to be lost to sea with an ill-timed wind.

He spent a lot of time in the bathroom, taking comfort in the closed feeling of a small room. It was warm- he may or may not have turned on the heat, despite it being June -and it felt safe. The only thing that could hide from him there was maybe a cockroach, and so help him, if they had roaches, he was going to have Steve rip the landlord a new one.

But no hiding spots meant no Hydra agents waiting around the corner, no drunk street bums trying to steal his bag from behind him and send him into a murderous panic. It was safe.

But that safe feeling only went so far as to his personal physical safety. Steve's physical safety was out of his hands, and Bucky didn't like that. Steve was more than capable, but he was still human and all it'd take is one lucky shot for Hydra to pay him back for what he did to their helicarriers.

And the idea that Steve could leave for work in the morning and not come home that afternoon was almost more terrifying than the idea of Hydra finding Bucky and throwing him in that chair. He'd hinged everything in himself on Steve when he entered Steve's apartment that night. Steve had become the center of his universe, the only thing that Bucky really had. If something happened to Steve, Bucky became a complete non-entity again. He became a broken and useless weapon that was discarded. He'd have no humanity, or no reason to hang onto what little he had.

So Bucky sat in the bathroom on the floor with the lights off and the heat on when Steve was at work. It was the closest he could come to making himself feel better.

That particular morning, however, the bathroom just wasn't cutting it. Maybe it was the lack of sleep getting to him. It'd been a few days since exhaustion had gotten him to crash so hard in his bed that he didn't notice he was sleeping alone, and he only got a few hours a night sleeping on the floor in Steve's room.

He tried a nap. If he was that exhausted, he'd sleep, he'd feel better when he woke up, maybe even feel up for staying out in the living room instead of hiding afterwards.

The nap didn't work so well. He ended up pulling his covers all the way up over his head and cocooning himself, like being wrapped up might simulate the safety of the dark and confined feeling of the bathroom enough to let him sleep.

He dozed, but only for about a half hour at best. He woke up feeling more exhausted.

Steve. He needed Steve. Steve needed to come home. Why wasn't he home yet?

Bucky abandoned the bed for the living room, looking at the time on Steve's laptop. It wasn't even noon yet. That was why Steve wasn't home yet. How had so little time passed? Bucky usually had a better sense of time passage than that. Or used to. The Soldier had a precise sense of time passage. What remained of Bucky that had come home was a mess, apparently.

Screw it. He wasn't going to make it through that day without having a complete meltdown and he didn't have the energy to handle one. So he made a decision. He grabbed some money from where Steve stored their savings- he wasn't sure how much to take, so he just grabbed a couple hundred in twenties. It seemed too much, but he hadn't really adjusted to modern prices, so he wasn't sure how much actually was too much. Taxis surely couldn't be that expensive, could they?

Next came looking up the city's taxi services to find the cheapest one and their rates. The cost made his heart stop, but counting the miles between the apartment and the VA meant he had enough pulled out.

The phone. Calling for that cab was next, and that meant using the phone. Bucky had no problem with the phone, but talking to someone on the other side that wasn't Steve made him nervous. But it was necessary speaking. He could make it a communication for a mission, and if he were honest, at this point, he _was_ on a mission. A mission to save his sanity, but a mission nonetheless.

A few minutes later, he was downstairs, waiting for his cab.

It was June, but he was still dressed in a long-sleeved shirt, his left hand hiding in his pocket and a hat on his head, making him marginally less noticable. Other than the long sleeves, he didn't look terribly remarkable, and not everyone wore t-shirts in the summer. He certainly stood out less in a long shirt than he would with his metal arm on display.

He fidgeted in his seat as the cabbie drove him to the VA as requested. No questions were asked, and Bucky appreciated that. He felt on the verge of jumping out of the car and finding a private corner to curl up in and have one of his frequent episodes as it was. Having to put up with small talk might push him past that verge.

"Need me to wait?" the driver asked once they'd gotten to the VA.

Bucky looked at the building, considering. He didn't even really know what he was going to do there. What, interrupt Steve's work day so he could talk Bucky down from an attack? Well, yes, but suddenly Bucky didn't want to actually do that. Trying to go through that in a public building made the lump in his stomach get heavier.

"Please." He could find Steve, ask Steve to come home instead. Steve would do it. Bucky knew he would. It wouldn't be right, taking him away from the job that supported them, but he was too high-strung to be able to think past needing the only emotional anchor he had, and as soon as possible.

It wouldn't take him long, and if Steve wanted them to take his bike, he could always pay the driver and say thanks anyway.

Upon entering, Bucky realized he had no idea where anything was, or even what Steve actually did to find where he might be. Bucky knew that Steve worked with Sam, and Sam worked with therapy support, although he wasn't a licensed therapist. One day, Bucky should look up how the damn place worked. Steve didn't have any degrees or experience working in that field, how the hell did he have a job there? Or Sam, for that matter?

But knowing that Steve worked with vets with mental health issues let him figure out at least what part of the building to go to. All he had to do was follow the signs.

The building felt far too cold for him, like the AC was set at too low of a temperature, even in long sleeves. Bucky knew it was probably comfortable for the other people there; he tended to feel colder than he should when he was on the edge or in the middle of having an episode. But knowing it was all in his head didn't ease his nerves or make it feel any warmer.

He ignored the way his flesh hand was shaking, his metal hand balled up firmly in his pocket, as he headed down the hall. He was careful to keep his head down, to not look any different from any other vet there. He didn't want attention, not from anyone other than Steve. He didn't want to interact with anyone else, talking to the cab driver had been hard enough. He wasn't ready for the outside world, and in his more rational moments, he understood why.

In episodes like the one he was just barely keeping at bay though, he couldn't really register anything past the burning desire to run and avoid at all costs.

There was a group therapy session going on in a room near an entrance in the mental health part of the VA hospital, and Bucky could hear Steve's voice. With a group. Oh goddamnit, he couldn't even find Steve without having to encounter a bunch of people.

Careful to avoid getting spotted by anyone, especially Steve, who might accidentally draw attention to him by interrupting the session- doubtful, but possible -Bucky manuevered to a wall just out of sight where he could sit and listen, maybe get an idea of how much longer he had until Steve was free, if he would have to find a place to hide and hope the anxiety went away on its own, because getting to Steve wasn't happening any time soon.

"-bullets got him. Too many good shots, no way he was going to make it," a male voice said. "All I could do was hold his hand while he died."

Bucky slid down to the floor, arms crossed over his stomach, hearing Steve answer.

"One of the hardest parts of a war sometimes isn't what happens to us, what injuries we walk away with," Steve's voice said. "Sometimes it's who we have to leave behind. And there's no shame in admitting that. There's no shame in what you feel in response. It's okay to get angry, to grieve."

Bucky didn't really notice anything else Steve said, his mind drifting back, only able to imagine what Steve must've gone through when Bucky fell from the train. Steve's voice was steady, soothing, not quite the tone he used to help calm Bucky down when the bathroom trick wasn't working, but it washed over him like water hitting fire, taking the edge off his own brain's misfirings, taking him back to where he could picture Steve finding his own private place to grieve for Bucky, not given nearly the time someone should have to do so. Not before he'd have to take down the Valkyrie Project. Not before the ice. Not before New York, and maybe only barely before they met up again at the bridge.

Even though he hadn't heard Steve talk about it, even though he hadn't heard that grief in Steve's tone just then, being able to get a glimpse of how Steve may just need Bucky as much as Bucky needed him helped ease the pressure in his mind. It made him relax, made him feel like maybe he wasn't as much of a needy mess as he felt like sometimes. He was still, he knew that, but for the moment, he felt he could go home and make it until Steve came home from work. Maybe even sit in the living room and read instead of having to go back to that warm dark corner in the bathroom.

He waited there a few more minutes, listening to the stories from the other vets, feeling less alone as Steve responded to them. He was just getting up to leave when a young blonde woman approached him. "Are you lost?"

Bucky shook his head. "Just looking for Steve Rogers. He's busy."

The woman glanced towards the room. "That session should be done soon, I can show you were there are chairs you can sit in while you wait. Might be more comfortable than the floor."

"No, I'm okay. It wasn't important."

"Are you sure?" The woman looked concerned, and if that was how the other employees at the VA handled the vets, they had a good chance at the place helping them.

"I'm sure."

"I can give him a message, if you want."

Bucky almost said no to that too, but stopped and thought for a second. Steve should be smart and stay the rest of the shift, but if he heard from the woman that a weird guy with long hair was asking about him, he might think it was an emergency that he get home, and those vets needed him. "Just tell him that James said he'd see him later."

There. Steve could decide for himself if it was okay to stay until the end of his shift or not.

The woman smiled. "I'll let him know, James."

Bucky left the VA feeling better than he'd entered. He still felt worked up, still wanted Steve to come home so he wasn't alone, and going back to an empty apartment would probably just jack up his anxiety levels again, but he wasn't likely to run off to the VA to find Steve again. He could make it. Just a bit longer.

He got back in the waiting cab and went home.

Noon rolled around and Bucky couldn't bring himself to eat. But he was able to make himself sit in the living room, read, take his mind off the silence in the apartment, a quiet that he still wasn't used to.

The tumble of the door lock drew his attention, letting him give up on trying to process everything he was reading. He looked over just as the door opened and Steve entered.

"Bucky?" Steve sounded more than concerned, he sounded like if he hadn't had his bike, he would've run home. His keys clattered to the ground instead of staying on the hook, not paying enough attention to what he was doing to get them on there properly. "What happened?" He all but ran to the couch were Bucky was sitting, long strides making that trip only a few seconds. He sat down next to Bucky. "Jamie said you left a message. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Bucky said, not offering further explanation. He knew he really didn't need to, and he didn't want to put what had been wrong with him earlier into words, so he simply didn't. Steve was a smart man, he could extrapolate what Bucky wasn't saying.

Steve studied him for a moment, silent, then sighed and put his arm around Bucky's shoulders in a half hug that he clearly wanted to turn into a full one but wasn't able to with their awkward angle to each other. "You weren't."

There, that's what Bucky had needed, what he couldn't even articulate in his own mind. A hug. A goddamn simple hug, basic human contact that he hadn't had since before Hydra. Something that made him feel a little less alone, made his new life a little more real instead of something that might pop like a soap bubble after nowhere near enough time.

"I am now."


End file.
